In the Southwest in Mid-September (a Nuit Blanche poem, after Amy Lowell’s “Nuit Blanche”) The chirping of crickets in the night is not found in the desert. Two hours from Albuquerque, not much is. In Socorro, I stop to get gas, lunch, and a room for later that night. Then I head out, driving dusty… Read More In the Southwest in Mid-September ~ poetry by Mary Christine Delea

There Are No Wild Dogs In Brooklyn Heights A skyline of wonders with a phantasmal attraction. The soapy comfort of store-bought flowers. Too pink, too sweet. Fragments in the sky on a day you’re brazen enough to look up. And they’re running. Just like you. Waiting to be shot down. Head back to Ainslie Avenue.… Read More There Are No Wild Dogs In Brooklyn Heights ~ poetry by Tessa McHattie

Burning Chocolat Mademoiselle likes her brioche with crème fraîche, Maupassant and a tasse de chocolat. I like her way of nonchalantly feigning I do not exist. Makes me feel like Camus smoking a Gauloises and struggling to pen the Myth of Sisyphus. She tells me all one needs is love but un peu de chocolat… Read More Burning Chocolat ~ poetry by Salvatore Difalco

Eternal Frat Boys So, this is who you’d rather spend time with? Does their obnoxious behavior compensate for my shyness? Does you saying you’re not like them, explicate your blindness? Or, are you just really that numb to my kindness? So much so, that these new friends are (not men, but) Eternal Frat Boys who… Read More Eternal Frat Boys ~ poetry by Jenna Mabus

Look at This Two wild pears from a tree near the train tracks, on a windowsill facing ten p.m. neighborhood backyards. Each would fit in one palm. Almost everything else lies on one table. A round pill box, brewpub restaurant coaster pasted to the lid, blue behind a red heart. My wife’s glasses: black bows,… Read More Look at This ~ poetry by David P. Miller

The 101 Uses of a Cravat The “Before” picture of a necktie. A bandage to staunch the blood. If it’s black, an armband for mourning. If it’s red, an armband for war. To welcome the spirit of Edgar Allan Poe to inhabit your body as his host. A lobster bib. A tourniquet. To appear epicurean… Read More The 101 Uses of a Cravat ~ poetry by E.R. Davis

Self-Portrait as a Miniature Donkey Dew-grass. Groomed. Sing sweet hee- haw for saltlick treat. If sad, sagged ears, mossy eyes. If sad, so? Sing. Be silver, small. Fat velvet muzzle: be led by. Crowd. Blue ribbons prick. Best soft. Best good. Look, it’s smiling. See: teeth. Only stablehand smell grimy breath. Only stablehand scraped by… Read More Self-Portrait as a Miniature Donkey ~ poetry by Annie Przypyszny

Chronic Pain          “The cure for pain is in the pain” – Rumi The tink of the gold band tumbling down a shower drain. Finding the unposed photograph of your mother at seventeen, falling in love with her, knowing you will never know that girl. The bleary-eyed stare of the goat in… Read More Chronic Pain ~ poetry by Colleen S. Harris

The Father of Minimalism I couldn’t sleep, so I poured myself a glass of water in the kitchen. That was when American composer Philip Glass walked through the door, a keyboard tucked under his arm. Why are you here, I asked. He opened his mouth but no sound came out. Instead, I heard the murmur… Read More The Father of Minimalism ~ poetry by Elena Zhang

My Daddy’s Accordion My daddy’s accordion was his second set of lungs. The first was for breathing, He played it every night between Jeopardy and his bedtime medicine. He named it “Darla.” Said it was the only lady who never done him wrong or maxed out his credit card. Only thing that never judged him… Read More My Daddy’s Accordion ~ poetry by Tom Busillo

Bullet Pudding After taking a strong sleeping potion I left my bed, and the four of us spent the day playing badminton. Chloe says I have eyes like errant cabbages. Lately she’s been obsessed with luxury communism fully automated. Because we haven’t been thinking big enough, because badminton before it was badminton was known as… Read More Bullet Pudding ~ poetry by Damon Hubbs

demise the la fires wolf down homes and buildings in the palisades – 0% containment. i walk outside my home 40 miles away and swallow a chunk of dust and debris that wind carries and deposits into my mouth. my yard looks like the aftermath of the storm in the wizard of oz. i walk… Read More demise ~ poetry by Ken Kakareka

Thanksgiving SOS Grandpa’s vodka watered down, the only potatoes served. Raised eyebrows & cocked heads after cocktail hour, guns with infinite woundability. Signs passed like cranberries over clicks of Morse code cutlery. Deep-fried turkey fireball a flare signal for help. The kids at the adult table a mere thirty- plus three major tantrums.   Divorce… Read More Three Poems ~ poetry by Jennifer Ruth Jackson

The Lament of Curley’s Wife He said I was a natural for the pitchers and he would write me when he got back to Hollywood. That starlight smile he had. Coulda been in the movies. Coulda had nice clothes and sat in them big hotels. He saw I was a natural. Coulda worn a white… Read More The Lament of Curley’s Wife ~ poetry by Ruth Lexton

Torch Song His normal identity: Johnny Storm.1 I tell him: Now that’s a hero’s name. The Human Torch? That’s every man2 I’ve dated, who’ll burn you every time after making promises. Doesn’t matter if he’s a hot-headed superhero3 or not. When you don’t have a secret identity, why do you even need an alter ego? But… Read More Torch Song ~ poetry by Ronnie Sirmans

VII. Mother never mentions my brother.  She keeps him in a box.  He is endless but divided by even perforations.  He has so many ears.  Mother lets him out when she studies biology and anatomy.  I can’t hear whether he volunteers to help mother summarize the key steps in post-surgery infection prevention.  A dot matrix… Read More Three Poems ~ poetry by Jason Fraley

It was the time I could and couldn’t (a villanelle) You know how this goes. You knew this was coming. Soon, evening and the filly is in the dirt pit. And my feelings are spiraling out of control I thought I wasn’t my father’s daughter until I disappointed you again. I think I will wear… Read More It was the time I could and couldn’t (a villanelle) ~ poetry by Samantha Moe

Alright, Listen SCENARIO I We’re naked and playing guitar, writing love songs that don’t quite rhyme while we drink to all the ghosts who haunt our lives. SCENARIO II I heard a rumor you were selfish and self-consumed, suffocating on the leather gags of your own ego. I crave the peanut butter way you lie… Read More Alright, Listen ~ poetry by Hillary Smith-Maddern

or, The Modern Prometheus I see myself, waving at the window, raving with Victor Frankenstein, I see myself, drunk as all hell, me drunk, Victor drunk, Victor ready to sin his way into heaven, I see myself, staggering baby-like towards the operating table, fun fact it was never lightning that brought the beast to life,… Read More or, The Modern Prometheus ~ poetry by Jennifer Jantzen

The Blob (1958, dir. Irvin Yeaworth) It falls to earth. It starts to grow & grow & grow. It eats poor Barney and then Kate and then it eats the stuff inside the doctor’s office then it eats the doctor’s car and then it eats the doctor too before heading downtown and this whole time… Read More The Blob (1958, dir. Irvin Yeaworth) ~ poetry by Rosalind Shoopmann

Self-Preservation 101 I was told to never eat while standing, to leave the wood floor hungry. The mop would hunt the crumbs of childhood and the cheese noodles shaped like cartoons. I’d squint to catch autumn’s eye, gathering the ruched orange war. In the backyard I’d make bones out of wine glasses to separate the… Read More Self-Preservation 101 ~ poetry by Nicole F. Kimball

Insomnia on a Theme From Brecht My bedroom isn’t big enough. It’s full of archangels                                                                                                            —Bertolt Brecht                                                                    First Psalm They hover—bright, voiceless shapes hunting names. No sleep will take him now. Afraid of dreams that drop simple, small clues. When they first came he asked them to stay. He’d keep his bed clean… Read More Insomnia on a Theme From Brecht ~ poetry by Mark J. Mitchell

Victoria Nordlund is the Poet Laureate of Glastonbury, CT, and lead master teaching artist of the The Nook Farm Writers Collaborative at The Mark Twain House & Museum. Her poetry collections Wine-Dark Sea and Binge Watching Winter on Mute are published by Main Street Rag. She is a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize… Read More I am in a field/or maybe a cemetery/ ~ poetry by Victoria Nordlund

Shoving Lanthanides and Actinides to a corner of my head, I recite B, C, N, O, F like a sacred psalm, organic elements swirling in the universe, my brain wrapped in Neon jiggles for you, like Iron flashing its yearning, if I could twist a pair of pliers to change your mind, implacable and inert… Read More Periodic Thoughts ~ poetry by Christine H. Chen

A Wild Heart She is turning into a cat that offers dead mice to its owners. Her chat window with him is a one-sided list of songs and sentences from books he will never read. She is turning into a penguin that offers stones to its partner. She sends him a list of cities, of… Read More A Wild Heart ~ poetry by Shikha Valsalan

Slash for Captain Marvel #15 그녀의 문제는 그녀의 목욕 내부를 두 번. One candle flickers beside the bed. 그녀는 자신의 성기에 반지를 넣어. I put the box on the table. 그녀는 저지대 내 슬래시을 공부했다. Improvements were made to my shoe. 우리는 꿀벌, 일부 그물과 케이크와 함께 제공되었다. I am surprised to see a nice shine on her skin. 그녀는 하늘에서 깃털의 몸을 좋아하지 않았다. I interfere with feathers in her lap.   Zombie Game                         This is a zombie game.… Read More Two Poems ~ poetry by Glen Armstrong

My Mother is a Contestant on The Golden Bachelor The first episode is crowded, the names a confusion the women a kaleidoscope of sparkle, bangle, and tit. In their moments on camera, they sing to Gerry, claim aging is an honor, show us their throats, tell him their signs. My mother isn’t the one in… Read More My Mother is a Contestant on The Golden Bachelor ~ poetry by Joanna Theiss

prayer to a boy my worn out band-aid collector of a heart has tricked my mind into believing you are a wasteland god my lover of unresolved and unforgiven screaming matches without oxygen i’ll lay my rotting sentences before your altar a shower head unhurriedly dripping my blood and pray pray pray pray pray in… Read More prayer to a boy ~ poetry by Megan Archibeque

To become a mystical surgeon, there are three texts one must study: The History of Tulips, George Washington Carver’s The Compendium of Moon Silences and The Book of Whale Secrets. From each, one learns about exactly one third of the personal cosmos. In the first third, the undried inks of wanderlust grapple with the shy… Read More The Education of the Mystical Surgeons ~ prose poem by Philip Jason

Good night blue bird, bohemian, bullets over broadway, boudoir banter, Banshee, bicycle rat, Bisquick, big slick, here, pussy pussy, bad bloke, unwoke, dry duck, grey goose, delaudid, die-hard, rhythmic sounding, hulabaloo. Good night ah chu!, the flu, all things one hundred percent too terribly true, dynamic, decrepit, deceased, demanded, fungus, fingernail, finicky up-do, rue the… Read More Night Soliloquy ~ poetry by Mary Paulson

another existential morning and aren’t we just prayers walking into each other and isn’t the half moon just the other half of everything we need and aren’t we just breathing and blood words and thoughts desire and death and isn’t the sun our imagination come to life isn’t it hope and doesn’t it go away… Read More Two Poems ~ poetry by Anthony George

The heart is coated in ribbons and bells, I guess this was always how things would go, crouched in the sandcastle made of hands, you in your mother’s faded Cape Cod sweatshirt and me in your pants, this feeling is an error, half of the day is swallowed by caverns, I have to reteach my… Read More Sugar Tide ~ poetry by Samantha Moe

Sunday morning before church; in the blackberry patch. Boys plucking berries, lips smack red; giddy kisses in the thorns, snakes gliding past their shoes. Sunday morning before church; from behind a pine, the Devil files his nails. Sunday morning before church; out pop lizards, green anole, red bib bobbing in robotic threat; mockingbird robs songs… Read More Pink Boys: Sunday Pastoral ~ prose poetry by Kim Salinas Silva

PROTEST V Flaming shingles fly above the streets outside neighbor’s apartment – playing NBA 2K21, blasting DJ Screw, Wretched of the Earth on the end table, white fist raised, curtains closed. Young folk out walking rawly the expanse of reality. PROTEST IV Sky closes on elm trees and metal-throated birds above street crowd flushed out… Read More Two Poems ~ poetry by Adam Day

  a prisoner spit at me and I stopped and he looked at me like I was a vulture and he was a corpse and I would usually just keep walking but the spit hit my arm and so I looked at it when he was looking at me and I looked up and the… Read More when I was an EMT in the prison ~ poetry by Ron Riekki

Sometimes, when we feel like aliens, which is most of the time (but whatever), we wonder: Do you know us? If not, it’s okay. It’s okay. Who knows us, really knows us? Gets us? The woman with a YouTube music reaction channel, the woman with a slow-rolling teardrop in her voice hearing feeling believing in… Read More The Ones Who Know Us ~ prose poem by Pat Foran

Anatomy of Melancholy From lapidary inscriptions, from signs, from stones, in the beginning, I try to rebuild you. The sky says, “Take this boot-knife, consider it a gift from a friend.” Was it then I noticed death can be a lesser misery? “It may well be.” quips Robert Burton, author of The Anatomy of Melancholy.… Read More Anatomy of Melancholy ~ poetry by Laurie Rosenblatt

Against Beginnings Each night I grow my second self a quarter inch and now her girth fills the bed, soon the room. By noon next Tuesday month she’ll fill the garage, then the block. Next year I’ll enter a city and change the weather, bringing what’s blue and open, like legs. Each night I grow… Read More Three poems ~ poetry by Barbara Lock

Author’s note: Scan the QR codes for an instant look at the artworks. Or visit https://andreaswannerstedt.se. Mikaela Nyman writes fiction, non-fiction and poetry in English and Swedish. Her first poetry collection in Swedish was shortlisted for the Nordic Council Literature Prize 2020. Recent poems have appeared in The Spinoff Friday poem, the climate change anthology No… Read More Oddly Satisfying: a meditation ~ poetry by Mikaela Nyman

My death every day is the idea of being made invisible I die of invisibility, my blackness devalued by lack of empathy from slavery up to Breonna Taylor, I am here to make space for blackness to be visible. The words that I write must show you how invisible you are to me because you… Read More I Feel Like a Mosquito Taking on Godzilla ~ poetry by Ilari Pass